


Death Isn’t the End

by nutmeag83



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Friends to Lovers, Immortality, Just a little melancholy, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Vampires, and the struggles therewith, but not the DFP kind, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 09:57:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83
Summary: Sherlock is turned into a vampire and has to deal with the consequences. John has to decide where he wants to fit into his best friend’s new life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note the 1st: So this plot bunny came about when I read the title of sherlockian4evr’s [_You Had to Go and Get Yourself Killed_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8171944/chapters/18724573). The title sent my hard drive into overtime, with my brain wanting a short story that started off with that line and included lots of hijinks and fluff. However, these crazy boys decided to take over this story, and humor and hijinks got left behind about one chapter in, and the length continued to increase despite my best efforts. What I got instead was a glimpse at what immortality would do to Sherlock, and the lengths to which John would go to keep his mad detective happy and sane. I apologize to myself and to my readers for failing to bring on the humor. Maybe next time I’ll get it right…
> 
> Note the 2nd: While this is completely AU (because vampires), we’re going to say that all of the events of S1 took place pretty much as seen on TV. ASiB and THoB are also a go (though maybe Irene was a sorcerer instead of dominatrix and the hound really was supernatural? I dunno). But we’re going to say that Mycroft did his actual fucking job and locked Moriarty up forever. I don’t know how they’re keeping him locked up. Solitary confinement with his only human contact being with people wearing the [Sensory Deprivator 5000](http://how-i-met-your-mother.wikia.com/wiki/Sensory_Deprivator_5000) (HIMYM reference; that’s some high-tech shit, man) maybe? In any case, TRF never happened; John and Sherlock are still solving crimes together in London two years in, happy as clams. Also, speaking of worldbuilding, I do take some basic rules from _You Had to Go and Get Yourself Killed_ , but I make up a lot of my own as well. No need to read it to understand this. But it’s a fun story if you like vampires. 
> 
> Note the 3rd: How do I end up writing stories in AUs that I don’t usually even read? I’ve got a unilock AU floating around, and now I’ve gone and done a vamplock AU. WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY BRAIN?!? I do have a sci-fi AU (Stargate fusion) in the works that’s much more up my alley. 
> 
> Note the 4th: The story is completely written (well, except for the epilogue, which is giving me fits), so I’ll likely be posting a chapter a day. Just six chapters and an epilogue. 
> 
> Note the 5th: (last one, promise!): Not beta-ed or Brit-picked. Enter at your own risk.

“You just had to go and get yourself killed, didn’t you? This is because I made you throw out the…whatever it was under the kitchen sink, isn’t it?”

John stood in the living room, fists on hips as he stared at his newly undead flatmate in exasperation. Just because it was easier to be a vampire these days did not mean Sherlock should take the first opportunity John had his back turned to become one of the undead. Two years into their friendship, and John still never had the chance to get bored. As his brain started listing everything they’d need to do to get Sherlock registered as a vampire, John wished for one moment of boredom. Just one moment, though; let’s not get carried away.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I did not do this on purpose, John. Though I don’t deny that being faster, stronger, and having better senses will improve my detective skills, you know I’d never seek out this lifestyle. I already have enough fans as it is. Now it’ll be twice as bad. Not to mention having to avoid the sun.”

John pointed an accusatory finger at Sherlock. “Maybe this will teach you not to leave me behind. How many times do I have to tell you that you have to stay on the bottom fire escape ladder until I can grab it?”

“She was getting away! I had keep up with her!” Sherlock fell backward on the sofa, landing perfectly, of course (because it wasn’t as if John already had enough to salivate over. Now the object of his unrequited love would be even more amazing at everything he did [apart from his people skills, which would always be atrocious]).

John sighed. They’d had this argument (sans vampire talk) approximately once every three months for the entirety of their friendship. He really should just give up on it. Sherlock would always hyper focus on the perp rather than giving a second thought to his partner trying to keep up with his inhumanly long legs. John didn’t really blame him. If he was in hot pursuit, he’d not want to slow down to wait for anyone else either. But John still worried, because Sherlock alone was Sherlock unsafe, and John would rather die than let anything happen to his best friend. Granted, Sherlock had just gone and died anyway, and he seemed to be faring rather well. At least he’d be a bit more bullet proof from now on.

Now that he thought about it, John decided this whole vampire thing could be a lot worse. He’d certainly be able to worry less now. Well, no. He’d still worry, but now he’d worry about the sun and stakes to the heart rather than bullets or falls from great heights. Six of one and half dozen of the other, it seemed.

Unfortunately, Sherlock’s ego would inflate to three times its already large size, what with the hyper reflexes and double the thinking speeds. John should have been more bothered by this than he was, but he figured Sherlock was already impossible to live with, so the change probably wouldn’t even be noticeable to John. He did feel bad for everyone else who had to deal with Sherlock, though. The members of the Met were going to _love_ this.

“Yeah, well, I reckon I needn’t worry so much about you dying anymore,” John continued, speaking his thoughts aloud. “Though we will need to buy massive amounts of sunblock. Maybe steal Mycroft’s umbrella…” John pulled out his notepad to help him keep track of everything. “First we need to register you as a vampire. You can’t do much until you have your license for that. Then we can get a permit for the flat. Oh! We should set you up for automatic blood deliveries. There’s no way I’m making a midnight blood run because _you_ forgot to pick it up. It’s one thing for me to buy milk and eggs, as I use those too, but you’re on your own for blood. I’ll wager you’re one of those vampires who is picky about blood types. Suppose we should get a few of each until you decide your preference…”

John glanced up from his list to see Sherlock staring at him, looking quite flabbergasted. It was an odd look on his friend’s face. “What? You _are_ going to drink blood regularly, Sherlock,” John demanded, pointing his pencil at his friend. “I’ll not have you attacking some poor innocent just because you forget to eat and go into a blood craze. Got that? Regular feedings, or I’ll not let the Met give you cases.” He glared a bit to show how serious he was before going back to his list, thinking out loud. “Hmmm, should we get a second fridge? Nah, we’ll hold off for now. I think the blood bottles should fit. Although it would be a good reason to get the experiments out of the main fridge. I’ll think about it. Let’s see… what am I forgetting? License, permit, blood. Ah, blackout curtains and sunblock.” John wrote that down and studied the list for a moment, but he thought he’d covered everything of immediate import. “That should do it. We should go and do paperwork now. I’d prefer to get to bed at a decent time. What with the no sleep last night.” John grumbled the last bit to himself.

He raised his head back up to tell Sherlock to get off his lazy arse so they could get him registered, only to find Sherlock still looking at him oddly. “What?!? I’m allowed to complain about no sleep. We agreed.”

Sherlock sat up and stared at John even more. As if that weren’t disconcerting before. Now Sherlock’s eyes were preternaturally pale, almost silvery in the early evening light. John thought they might even glow a tad—not an uncommon trait in vampires. He was starting to worry about the staring, though. Did he have something on his face? Perhaps Sherlock needed…

“Do you need to feed? How long as has it been? You can’t buy blood until you’re registered, so that’s even more reason to get this taken care of soon. And we need to get you back here as soon as possible so your body can finish the transformation process. You’ll be alternately starving and exhausted for the next few days. You’re not allowed to eat the cabbie on the way over, by the way.”

John would really like to go and put on his coat and shoes, but Sherlock’s gaze had him glued to the spot. Vampires couldn’t actually mesmerize humans, but Sherlock had always had that trait, at least where John was concerned.

“Sherlock?” John finally managed. “Everything okay?”

“We?”

John thought on that for a moment. He wracked his brain, but he couldn’t figure out what Sherlock meant. “’We’ what?” John finally asked.

“ _We’re_ going to go and register me? _We’re_ going to buy blood and curtains and possibly a fridge?”

John cocked his head. “Did the transformation process scramble your brain? Or is there something wrong with your hearing?”

Sherlock finally let go of his visual hold of John so that he could roll his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Then why are you repeating me? You hate repetition.”

“Because…I don’t understand…” He looked lost and uncertain.

This boggled John’s mind. Sherlock _always_ understood. “What don’t you understand?”

“You.” Sherlock looked calm, but there was still a hint of confusion in his silver eyes and his hands were clutched tightly in his lap.

“You’re a genius detective recently turned into a vampire, and _I’m_ the confusing one?”

“You’re helping me. Is it because you don’t trust me to do it myself?”

After two plus years of living together, John had learned that Sherlock was sensitive to how people perceived him, despite what he said and how he acted. His personality may have been a bit childlike at times, but he was an adult, capable of comporting himself as such. And while John did do all the shopping, he guessed he’d never done the level of hand-holding that he had just gone over with Sherlock. He thought on it a moment. Why _was_ he doing this?

“I reckon…because I care. And because we’re a team. What happens to one of us, happens to both of us.” John chuckled. “And, yeah, I’m a tad concerned that if you go and fill out the paperwork yourself, your giant and newly sped up genius brain will get distracted by a deduction, and you’ll accidentally sign your undead body over to science. I’d prefer that not happen, if we can avoid it.”

Sherlock frowned in thought. “Is that the way it is for all friends?” At John’s questioning eyebrow quirk, he quoted, “’What happens to one of us, happens to both of us.’”

John shrugged. “Some friends, yeah. Though I suppose it’s not terribly common. But then again, _we’re_ not terribly common, are we?” He grinned at his friend, trying to lighten the mood.

It worked. Sherlock grinned in return, and John saw his body relax a bit. “Not at all common, no.” He glanced at the door. “Shall we, then?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I had time to edit a second chapter this evening, so I figured I might as well put it up. And, considering it’s the weekend and I’ll be sitting at home just watching it snow (because we didn’t get much snow this winter, and it’s decided to appear now that its spring, OFC), I’ll likely be putting up two chapters a day. So this thing’ll be done by Sunday or Monday!

It took them most of the evening to get Sherlock’s license, a permit that allowed 221B to store blood, a supply of blood, and the curtains. John was exhausted by the time they returned. Sherlock had, unsurprisingly, picked fights with everyone they interacted with. Gods help him if his flatmate was even more of a tosser as a vampire. He was sure Sherlock’s second demise would be considered justifiable homicide. Greg would definitely back him up.

“Feed,” John said to him, shoving a bottle of blood into his friend’s hands as they sat in a cab headed back to Baker Street. “You’re grumpier than usual even for you.”

“But—”

“We agreed, Sherlock! Drink or no more cases.”

“No, _you_ demanded—”

“And how often do you demand things of me, huh? So, _for bloody once_ , just do as I ask and don’t argue. I really don’t want my best friend to get locked away forever because he didn’t feed and accidentally attacked someone.”

Before John had a chance to lower his hands from where he’d been gesturing, he found himself in the vise-like grip of his vampire flatmate. After a moment, John realized Sherlock was hugging him and not attacking him.

“Well, this is new,” he muttered into the too-fragrant neck his face was smashed into.

“I’m—I’m a new person. Thought I should try some other new things while I was at it,” Sherlock replied to John’s hair. “I can stop, if you don’t…”

“No!” It came out a bit too quick and forceful. John tried again. “No. It’s fine. It’s…good.” He put his arms around Sherlock, aware that they were in the back of a cab but not caring. It wasn’t that John and Sherlock didn’t touch, just that it was always incidental. But for once, Sherlock was hugging him to show his appreciation and fondness, and John found he quite liked it. After a moment, John realized that Sherlock was also sniffing him.

“Umm, Sherlock, everything alright over there?” John asked.

“Are you using a new soap?”

“Noooo.”

“Shampoo?”

“No.”

“Aftershave.”

“Sherlock, I’m not using new anything.”

“You smell different.”

“No. You just have supersensitive olfactory nerves now.”

“No, it’s not that I’m smelling _more_. You smell _different_.”

John finally pulled back to look Sherlock in the eyes. “Yeah, because you’re noticing all of my body’s chemicals that we puny mortals can’t perceive. Come on, Mr. Graduate Chemist, you know this.”

It took a few moments of watching Sherlock’s frozen face for him to understand what was happening. It wasn’t uncommon for newly made vampires to “zone out”—hyper focus on some sight, scent, or flavor while ignoring everything else. It explained why Sherlock’s brain wasn’t supplying him the explanations it usually did.

John clicked his fingers in front of Sherlock’s face. “Hey, snap out of it,” he added, when the clicking didn’t work. Still nothing. John grabbed the bottle blood Sherlock hadn’t emptied and waved it under the vampire’s nose, which finally did the trick.

Sherlock shook his head, frowned, and snatched the blood out of John’s waving hand, draining it hungrily. He wrinkled his nose distastefully. “AB is awful. I prefer the O I had earlier.”

John laughed, glad to have his friend back. “Of course you do. You okay now?”

“Obviously, John. It was a simple zone out. I should be processing satisfactorily within a week.”

“Sherlock. It takes _months_ for a new vampire to get their senses sorted.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Genius, remember?”

“True,” John acceded with a nod. He really should have thought of that himself, but he was tired and still trying to acclimate to the idea that he now lived with a vampire.

Things had changed a lot since the invention of artificial blood back in the ‘90s. Well, it wasn’t artificial so much as lab grown. Since then, vampirism was much more accepted than it had been. The government still kept tight control on how many vampires were running about, but the general public was much less afraid now that they weren’t the only option for a vampire’s lunch. Some were still highly suspicious, refusing to work or even interact with vampires, and others crossed the street for fear of being attacked when they met up with one on the pavement, but the general prejudice had died down. People were learning the difference between fact and myth, and public morale was up.

Despite all that, vampires were still rare enough that having one as a flatmate wasn’t exactly bog standard. John had met less than ten other vampires in his lifetime and only really knew one, a professor back at uni. He knew some people who had never interacted with more than a couple of vampires in their entire lives.

So leave it up to him to gain one as a best friend. Such was his life.

Once they arrived back at Baker Street, John handed his laptop to Sherlock with only a muttered “Blood” before heading into the kitchen to make tea. He wanted nothing more than to burrow into his bed and sleep for a day, but he needed to make sure Sherlock was doing okay. Shock was a fairly common reaction within the first twenty-four hours of being turned, and Sherlock had been remarkably sound of mind so far.

He turned away from the worktop to find Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, staring at John yet again.

“Is this going to be the new normal, this staring thing?” John asked exasperatedly. “Are you counting my gray hairs or something?”

Sherlock looked back down at the laptop, typing out what John hoped was an order form for blood. “You’ve been rather calm about this whole…” his hand fluttered through the air, “ordeal.”

“Well, I have lived with you for two years. It takes a lot to surprise me these days.”

There was a faint almost-smile hanging around Sherlock’s lips. “True. But this is extraordinary, even for me.” The almost-smile disappeared. “I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t be offended if you wanted to move out.” John almost missed the preternaturally quick glance Sherlock gave him from under his fringe.

“Why would I move out?” The kettle clicked off, and John turned away to pour water over tea leaves, bringing the mug with him when he sat down across the table from his flatmate. He watched Sherlock closely. Sherlock was worried, John thought, but he wasn’t sure precisely what bothered the other man.

“I’m hard enough to live with on a good day. And now I’ll be up at all hours, there will be blood bottles taking up room in the fridge, and there’s the possibility I could attack you in your sleep.”

John laughed. “And this is different from our normal lives how?”

“John!” Sherlock barked out reprovingly, his expression going even more serious as he looked at his friend eye to eye. “I’m supernaturally fast and strong now. You don’t stand a chance in a fight against me. If I go into a blood craze, I’ll not be able to stop myself from hurting or even killing you.”

John let the warmth of the mug seep into his hands while he formulated his answer. Sherlock did raise a good point. People had died when vampires went too long without feeding and attacked someone unawares. While blood craze was overhyped in the media, it did happen. And Sherlock, absent minded and hyper focused already, could easily forget or forego feeding whilst on a case. But John wasn’t worried. Well, no more than usual.

“It’s worth the risk. Every day of our life together has been worth the risk. I’m happier now than I’ve been in a long time, and it’s because of this insane life we lead. I accepted from day two that a life with you in it would likely mean an early grave for me. I’d rather be happy in a short life than miserable in a long one. So really, you being a vampire changes nothing.”

Except that wasn’t quite true, John realized but didn’t voice. He wouldn’t be able to chase after Sherlock on cases now; he’d be too quick for John to keep up with. He’d probably be able to nab the perps before they even had a chance to run, unless said perps were some sort of supernatural being like a werewolf or another vampire. The idea of falling behind saddened John, but he pushed it away. He’d still be able to watch his brilliant detective work, and that was ninety percent of what they did anyway, so losing the ten percent that was exciting chases through the London streets wasn’t so terrible, was it?

“I’ll not leave you behind,” Sherlock said softly.

John knew his smile was a bit sad. He preoccupied himself with wringing out his tea bag and adding milk to the cup. “You do remember how you got into this state to begin with, right?” he replied, trying to lighten the mood.

“I could—” Sherlock cut himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind. I, uh, got my account set up. Weekly deliveries of O-neg blood, in perpetuity.” His smile was about as happy as John’s likely was.

“Are you going to—is this going to be okay, Sherlock? Being a vampire?” John questioned. While he expected his friend to be a bit put out by the whole ordeal, he wasn’t expecting the melancholy.

“I’m fine, John. Just still getting used to the idea.” Sherlock stood, looking around. “I’ll need to find a new hobby or three, seeing as I don’t need to sleep anymore.” He looked a bit lost.

“Just because you don’t _need_ sleep doesn’t mean you _can’t,_ ” John contended.

Sherlock just looked at him sadly. “I have trouble shutting my brain down even when I’m exhausted. Now that my body no longer needs sleep, there’s no stopping it.”

“Sherlock…” John went to stand in front of his friend, wanting to comfort him, but not knowing how. “We’ll figure something out. Meditation, maybe.”

Sherlock gave another sad smile. “Yes, of course.”

John put a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “For now, use your big brain to research everything there is to know about vampirism. And experiment. By the end of the year, I expect you’ll know more about vampires than the top experts.

With a hum of probable agreement, Sherlock took John’s laptop with him and settled into his armchair. Not quite ready to leave him alone, John sat in his own chair, armed with a book and his cup of tea.

Some time later, he awoke with a crick in his neck. Sherlock was doing his new staring thing again. John swore he’d felt it in his sleep. He hoped he’d grow used to it soon. He understood that Sherlock’s new perceptions were allowing him to catalogue a million new things, but it was still a tad creepy. He stretched and tried not to think about it.

“I should head up to bed. We need to go to the Yard tomorrow morning and see if the poor sod who turned you is in the system. In this age of CCTV and trackers, I don’t know how we still have so many rogues running free.”

Sherlock hummed in what John hoped was agreement. He did his nighttime routine in the bathroom, then went up to his room and crashed on his bed after pulling off just enough clothing to be comfortable.

John woke up some time later, feeling disoriented. A glance at the clock showed he had been asleep for almost three hours. At first, he didn’t know what woke him, but then he saw a flash of silver from one corner.

“Sherlock?” he yawned out. “Alright?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock replied quietly, not moving.

“Want to tell me what you’re doing in my room?”

“Not particularly,” came the reply.

John rolled his eyes. “Tell me anyway.”

Silence.

Fine. John could figure this out.

“Hankering for something a little more alive than a blood bottle?”

“No.”

“Doing an experiment on sleep patterns?”

“No.”

“Sherlock…”

“You calm me.”

John thought on that a moment and then understood. “You realized when you watched me napping earlier that your brain calms down when you watch me sleep?”

“Yes. Perhaps your breathing acts as a meditation aid or perhaps I find your presence comforting. Whatever the case, I find relaxing easier when you’re near.”

John waved to the bed. “Come on then.”

Sherlock did a double take. “What?”

“I’d rather not have you standing in the corner like a creepy stalker. So come and sit on the bed while you meditate or whatever. Although really, you’re meant to be sleeping. Your body is still working hard to finish the transformation.”

Before John could blink, Sherlock was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed. John noticed he had a bottle of blood clutched tightly in his hands. “Is this alright?”

John shrugged. “However you’re comfortable. You can lie down if you need to.”

“This is fine,” Sherlock assured him.

Leave it to Sherlock to ignore his body’s need to sleep. At least he’d changed into his pajamas. It’d feel odd if he was sat there in one of his posh suits. Okay, it was odd no matter what, but pajamas made it slightly less so.

“Are you sure you’re not worried I’ll attack you?” Sherlock asked, trying and failing not to look worried.

“I’m always worried you’ll attack me, Sherlock. Your being a vampire doesn’t change that.”

Sherlock relaxed and gave a soft chuckle. “Very well. Good night, John.”

“’Night, Sherlock.”

John laid back down and pulled the covers up to his chin.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's snowing, and I'm cozy. As promised, two chapters today. This is the first of two. Enjoy!

John adjusted to their new way of life without much work on his part. Just as he had argued the first day, Sherlock as a vampire wasn’t that different than Sherlock as a human. He still got into strops and moped around the flat. He screeched out non-songs on the violin and yelled at people for being idiots. His brain was still magnificent, and he still loved solving crimes. And bottled blood in the fridge was quite tame compared to the severed tongues and bits of appendages that usually found their way into the appliance.

If anything, Sherlock as a vampire was a more considerate flatmate, if not person in general. While he got just as annoyed with people as he ever had, he was much more aware of how he affected John. Apart from some extra staring and the fact that they had slumber parties a few nights a week, John wasn’t bothered by anything Sherlock got up to. And even those events were becoming just another part of daily life at Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson also adjusted quite easily. After she warned Sherlock not to spill blood on anything (not the first time she’d had to do so), she acted like nothing had changed. She still complained when Sherlock made a mess or John and Sherlock got into loud rows. She still brought up tea and nibbles—vampires did need to eat normal foods from time to time, though Sherlock subsisted mainly on blood, tea, meat pies, and biscuits—and she still cleaned whenever Sherlock allowed it.

The members of the Met, on the other hand, still weren’t quite sure how to deal with an undead Sherlock. They had a couple of vampires and werewolves on the force, of course. They’d never be able to catch supernatural beings if they didn’t have a few of their own capable of doing the catching. But Sherlock was already an anomaly, so him being supernatural made people even more wary.

Amazingly enough, the person to take it most in stride was Sally Donovan, who had shrugged and said “Once a freak, always a freak.” Then there was Greg, who just threw up his hands and yelled “Really?!?” when he bumped into John and Sherlock in the lobby of New Scotland Yard when they went in to see if the rogue who’d turned Sherlock was in the system. Dimmock and Hopkins stared a bit more than usual, but still treated Sherlock mostly the same. The rest of the force avoided him as much as possible. So, really, everyone treated him just as they always had.

Mycroft had turned up the day after the transformation, eying Sherlock for a few moments before sighing. “Mummy won’t be happy,” he’d said, but John didn’t think he was as put out as he seemed to be. Although a supernatural Sherlock likely would cause Mycroft more problems, it was probably also advantageous to have a vampire he could call on for super secret spy work when necessary.

All in all, life went on as it normally did.

Except.

Sherlock was quieter now. More melancholy and introspective. His black moods didn’t increase, but he had lost a bit of the manic happiness he got on cases. They didn’t laugh as much as they used to, though they still shared smiles and moments of glee in the midst of a case. John wasn’t sure if it was due to a change in brain chemistry or just a new perspective on life. He worried, though. And he missed the old Sherlock. The one whose black humor pervaded crime scenes and who nicked ashtrays from Buckingham Palace.

Sherlock seemed to be mentally healthy, from what John could tell, despite the melancholy. He sat with John almost every night as he slept, saying his brain felt like it would overload if he didn’t let it rest. John had taken to sleeping in Sherlock’s room, since the bed was bigger and it was closer to the kitchen and living areas, so Sherlock could wander in whenever he needed a top up. Sometimes John awoke to a sleeping Sherlock slumped against the headboard, but the vampire always woke within moments of John, as if he could detect the change in John’s breathing and heartbeat, even while asleep. Mostly, though, Sherlock came and went while John slept. John would have been none the wiser if not for the rumpled bedclothes next to him and an increased scent of Sherlock’s aftershave on the other pillow.

He couldn’t deny that he liked it. It was the one chance John had to be physically close to his friend. Despite the hug in the cab that first day and the fact that they shared a bed several times a week, Sherlock had distanced himself from John. They’d be standing at a crime scene or at the morgue just like normal, when, all of a sudden, Sherlock would almost leap back, as if he had only just realized how close they were to each other. Or they’d be sitting peacefully in their armchairs when Sherlock would get up and stalk from the room as if John had offended him.

They talked less, too. Sherlock spent more time in his mind palace (or maybe just ignoring his flatmate; John couldn’t tell). John knew that Sherlock was aware of him—the staring thing hadn’t stopped since the transformation—but there was less communication. Sherlock, always one to keep his thoughts close to the vest, shared practically nothing anymore.

John understood it to an extent, especially when working with the Met or dealing with clients. Sherlock’s ability to process information had increased, so his thoughts moved at an even faster rate than when he had been mortal, and John knew he got annoyed with how slowly everyone else thought. But where before the two of them would chat about inane things while at home, now there was silence.

John tried not to let it bother him, but he worried more and more that he was falling further behind his friend. Sherlock no longer had need of a guardian or a conductor of light. His abilities put him so far ahead of everyone that John likely just dragged him down.

So it wasn’t completely surprising when, seven months after the transformation, Sherlock ended a rather tense silence in the living room with “I’ve decided to move out.”

Despite the lack of surprise, John’s heart still dropped to his feet. He tried to keep his voice calm, though, when he asked, “And why is that?”

“I just… We knew when… There’s a reason you don’t hear about vampires and humans being flatmates, or even friends,” Sherlock finally managed. He looked at the floor rather than at John.

“Right. Well, I thought things were going rather well, given the circumstances. As I said at the beginning, you as a human and you as a vampire are remarkably similar. Is it…is it me?”

“No!” Sherlock finally looked at John straight on. “No. It’s me. It’s difficult having…a human in such close proximity all the time.”

“What about sleeping?”

“I’m getting better at meditating.”

John looked at his friend askance. “No you’re not. You’re pants at it unless I’m sleeping next to you.”

So, Sherlock had a problem, and he was lying about it. Did he worry about offending John? Maybe John smelled really bad or chewed too loudly or something. But when did Sherlock worry about offending John? Yes, he was more considerate now, but John didn’t think that would stop him from complaining if John was too…something.

He started off with the easy questions. “Do I smell?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “I…what? What do y—No! I’m not—I wouldn’t… What makes you say that?”

John’s eyes widened. Well, that was a bit more than had John expected. “You said that first day that I smelled different. Is it a bad smell? Don’t worry about offending me. I know most people don’t find me offensive, but your senses are a bit…extra, so you can perceive things most others can’t.”

Sherlock looked back down at the floor. “You do _not_ smell bad, John. I promise.”

John studied Sherlock for a moment before deciding to take the man at his word. “Fine. Do I make too much noise?”

“No.”

“Then what is it? Just tell me so we can try to work it out. I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong, John. It’s just…it’s just me. The transition hadn’t been as…smooth as I expected it to be. I’ve been thinking of quitting detective work. Retiring. Maybe moving to the country and taking up beekeeping. I’ve decided I want to write a book on what I’ve learned about vampirism. The quiet of the country could be good for that.”

John just stared at his friend in confusion. As if Sherlock could survive for five minutes without being in the thick of it. He lived for the rush and craziness of the city. He’d die without grisly crimes to keep his mind occupied.

“The quiet of the…Sherlock, what the hell? You’ll not last a day in the country. And don’t forget that you’ve got an extended life now. You can’t expect the country to be exciting enough to last you three hundred or so years.”

“I know exactly how long my life expectancy is now, _doctor_ ,” Sherlock hissed. He stood up and started pacing, hands waving wildly, finally letting go of the contempt he had apparently been bottling in for over half a year. “I’ve done my research. Given my extraordinary speed and my intelligence, which is high even by vampiric standards, I’m practically invincible. Three hundred years is paltry compared to my likely life span. Try a thousand. Who knows, maybe two thousand! I really should just do the world a favor and do myself in now. It’s a much more palatable idea than living with myself for the next millennium.” Sherlock flopped on the sofa, rant over.

John was startled by the outburst. While Sherlock had been quieter since he’d turned, he hadn’t shown this level of despair. Had these thoughts been circling the whole time or was this new? He thought on Sherlock’s words. Could he live to be a thousand? The oldest known vampire was six hundred years old, and she was an anomaly. Most didn’t live past three hundred. No one knew exactly why vampires didn’t live longer. It wasn’t as if they died of old age or disease. But the way Sherlock talked made John think that it was despair that killed them. Perhaps they get lonely or bored or just plain tired, and they let some stupid accident or fight take them. Suicide wasn’t uncommon among vampires either.

Given that, John supposed it wasn’t surprising that Sherlock would be troubled by an extended life. A man whose brain wouldn’t shut down, faced with somewhere between three hundred and a couple thousand years of time. All alone. Sherlock hated being alone with his thoughts. That’s why he’d latched on to John when—Oh.

“Turn me,” John said. It wasn’t a sentence he said with ease. An immortal life would not be any easier for him than it would be for Sherlock. He craved excitement and danger, and he imagined everyday life would pall within fifty years. But at the same time, this was the easiest choice he’d ever made. If he could ease his friend’s anguish, if he could prevent his suicide even for just a few more years, then it’d be worth it. And if it meant he got to stay by the love of his life’s side for a few centuries, well, that was just a perk.

Sherlock went from agonizing into the back of the sofa to sharp-eyed standing in the beat of a hummingbird’s wing. A moment later, he was standing in front of John, glaring down at him.

“Do not give up your mortality so lightly, John. You don’t know what this life means—”

“Yes, I do,” John argued, pushing himself out of his chair to stand in front of his friend. “It means hundreds of years of likely boredom, of listening to you complain about the lack of originality in the criminal classes, of you whinging into the back of the sofa, of feet in the refrigerator and mold in the sink. But it also means more laughing at crime scenes. It means keeping you safe and happy. It means centuries of your friendship, rather than a measly forty or fifty.”

Sherlock took a breath, seeming a bit surprised by John’s answer. He recovered, though, and argued back. “You think it’s all rainbows and puppies now, John, but we’ve only known each other for a few years. That’s a _minute_ in the life of a vampire. We’ll be sick of each other in five years, and then where will you be? Annoyed, alone, and bored. You can’t want that.”

John laughed bitterly. “I shouldn’t want the dangerous life we lead now, but I do. I’m _abnormal_ , Sherlock. I will never be happy in an ordinary life. But if you leave me now, I’ll not have any other choice. I’ll be forced into an ordinary life, and that’s even more of a death sentence than our current life is. So if my becoming a vampire keeps me from that and keeps you alive, I’ll do it, and gladly.”

Sherlock looked torn. Upset that John would throw his life away (by extending it, ironically), but maybe also a bit happy that he wouldn’t have to live out his preternaturally long existence alone. “Think about it,” he finally said. “Make sure this is what you really want.”

“Only if you do the same,” John responded.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second of two chapters posted today. I love how awkward these two are here. I think this might be my favorite chapter. ;)

It took John almost a fortnight to talk Sherlock into it. He thought on it, as requested, but his stance didn’t change, and he finally wore Sherlock down.

John came home one day to find Sherlock sat at the desk, elbows propped on the wooden surface and hands in their usual prayerful pose as he stared at a piece of paper lying in front of him. He didn’t answer John’s greeting, and after putting away the shopping, John stepped up behind his flatmate, looking over his shoulder to see what had him so entranced. John’s breath caught in his throat when he saw that it was a waiver to allow Sherlock to turn one John Hamish Watson from human to vampire.

“Mycroft procured it, of course,” Sherlock said, answering John’s unspoken question. “Says that I’m dangerous to have running about alone. That I need a _minder_. Apparently it was a fairly easy sell. Not that he couldn’t have got it without the express permission of the Ministry, but he does like to go through official channels whenever possible. It makes people less worried he might try to take over the world one day, I think.”

John chuckled and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he leaned closer to read the waiver. “And you’re okay with this? If you don’t want to be stuck with me for eternity, I’d rather know now than in five years’ time.”

Sherlock huffed out a breath. “Of course I’m okay with it. I wouldn’t have got the waiver otherwise.”

“Your trying to talk me out of it for the last fortnight says otherwise.”

“I… I don’t want to saddle you with a life you’ll hate. I stand by that. But you’re stubborn, and reasonably intelligent, so I know you’re aware of the complications inherent in an extended life span.”

“Not to mention you’ve been listing them to me _ad nauseum_ for the past two weeks,” John retorted under his breath.

“That I have,” Sherlock replied, but he sounded fond. Maybe even a bit happy. “I just wanted to afford you the luxury of having the choice I wasn’t given.”

“I understand.” And John did. But he’d made his choice, and he was glad Sherlock was respecting that decision.

“I’m sorry I said I’d move out, that I didn’t allow you a say in how our friendship would proceed,” Sherlock continued, still staring at the paper in front of him. “I just knew that watching you grow older would destroy me. Not that I mind you growing older, but I knew _you’d_ hate _me_ watching you slow down and become more feeble. And every day you aged would mean one less day I’d have with you. I couldn’t stand the thought, John. I’ve…I’ve treasured our time together. You understand me better than anyone else, and the idea of spending centuries without you made me despair. I had decided I’d leave, to spare us both the pain.”

“You wouldn’t have lasted ten years alone in the country, bees or no bees,” John said softly, squeezing the hand that still gripped Sherlock’s shoulder. He was reluctant to break the connection, so he left it there.

“I wouldn’t have lasted _one_ year, John. The plan was to write a few books on vampirism based on my research, maybe write another on apiculture, then find myself a quiet meadow and a sunny day and just…end it.”

John sucked in his breath. Death by sun was the most painful way for a vampire to end their life. Beheadings and stakings were quick, but it would take at least six hours for the sun to do its work. By the day’s end, Sherlock would have third-degree burns covering his entire body; he’d die of thirst before the burns could kill him, but it would be painful.

“Don’t you—” John gulped and tried again. His voice shook despite his attempt to control it. “Don’t you _ever_ do that. Don’t even threaten it, okay? If the day comes where you can’t take living anymore, you come to me, alright? We’ll do it properly. A physician-assisted suicide, you could say. Got that?” He gave Sherlock’s shoulder a shake to drive the point home.

Sherlock shuddered and let his head droop. “Thank you, John. I appreciate your support in the event that it…becomes too much.”

Gods, was this what the next few centuries would be like? Would he need to worry about Sherlock giving up the ghost on a yearly basis? John would do it, of course he would. He wasn’t backing down now. But the thought of his friend in mental agony for hundreds of years wasn’t something he relished.

As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock said, “Don’t worry, John. If you’re with me, I think I shall be sufficiently distracted to avoid suicidal thoughts.”

“I won’t back out of this, even knowing that I could be dealing with that from here on out.”

Sherlock finally turned to face John. “I know. And thank you, really. But I’ll be fine.”

And John believed him. The vampire looked more at peace than he had for the past seven-plus months. The weight had been removed from his shoulders, and John imagined his eyes glowed a bit brighter.

“Sooo, how does this work. I mean, I know the basics of the procedure, but how do you want to go about it? Are we just going to do it now? Do we want to put it on the calendar? ‘19th of June, turn John.’ Should we have a ceremony? Invite our friends?”

John’s attempt at breaking the heavy mood worked. Sherlock stared at John incredulously. John managed to keep a straight face for all of seven seconds before breaking out into a fit of giggles. “Your face,” he gasped. “I wish I’d got a picture.”

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Well, you’re no picnic. Which I guess makes us perfect for each other.”

Sherlock looked pleased with the thought, but a hint of uncertainty lingered in his eyes. “You do realize that if we do this, we might as well tack a “Just Married” sign on the back of a car and drive off into the sunset. We may not be romantically involved, but we are basically pledging our ridiculously long lives to each other. I wouldn’t recommend romantic entanglement with mortals, not that your relationships last long anyway.” He sounded a bit annoyed, but that was just typical Sherlock. John tried not to read anything into it.

He had, of course, considered the romantic angle in his contemplations the past few weeks. Of all of the challenges they would likely face, this was the hardest for John to come to terms with—that he would likely pine to the end of his many days for his best friend. But, in the end, he had decided it was worth it, just as he’d thought the first time he had broached the idea with Sherlock. Sherlock would always be worth the pain and agony.

“I know,” John said. “People will talk, but they do little else. It doesn’t matter.”

Sherlock stared at him for a few moments before giving John a small smile. “Indeed.” He glanced at the waiver a final time, then back up at John. “Well, you know I don’t stand on ceremony, so if this is really what you want, I say we get on with it.”

John breathed out in relief. “Works for me. Where do you…?”

“Sofa, I think. I have vague memories of dropping like a ton of bricks when it happened. Granted, the vampire who turned me wasn’t exactly the courteous sort. I would keep you from falling, of course, but I think having you supported by furniture would be the best arrangement.”

John’s heartbeat picked up as he finally considered the actual process. He’d been so keen on getting Sherlock to agree to it that he’d not thought about the actual transformation. From what he’d read, it didn’t hurt after the first few seconds, but he was still letting his best friend take a bite and suck out a bunch of blood. It was more than a little disconcerting to contemplate.

Sherlock must have heard John’s heart rate increase, because he looked panicked. “If you’re having second thoughts—”

“No! I’m not. Just a little…pre-wedding jitters, so to speak.” John tried for a lighthearted chuckle, but it came out more feeble than he’d hoped. “For the actual process, that is. Not the Ever After…” Best just get on with it before he overthought it. “Should we lay out a towel or something? You aren’t exactly practiced at sucking blood out of a live specimen, or even a dead one, so it might get a little messy. And we don’t want Mrs. Hudson tacking on even more to our rent, yeah?” John moved toward the linen cupboard, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand.

“I’ll get it.” He smiled almost sweetly at John, then flashed out of the living room. He was back by the time John took the five steps to the sofa.

“Umm, neck or—” Damn, why did John feel like a teenager going on his first date? His whole body suddenly felt awkward and unwieldy.

“Wrist is fine, I think,” Sherlock cut in, sounding just as nervous as John.

“Right. Yeah. Of course. So, sitting or…”

“Yes. Sitting. Just lean back… Right, yes. That’s good.”

John sat on the right side, facing forward, leaving plenty of space for Sherlock to situate himself as he saw fit. Sherlock sat facing him, right leg bent on the seat and the ankle crossing under his left knee. He laid the towel across their laps. His hand reached out for John’s left wrist, but paused.

“Is it okay if…”

“Of course,” Joh said too quickly. “Yeah, you’ll need to hold it to…”

“Right,” Sherlock agreed, also a bit too quickly.

John looked up into Sherlock’s face, and, after a moment, they both burst into giggles.

“Okay,” John finally gasped out. “Awkwardness averted. We’re just two blokes, hanging out, whilst one turns the other into a vampire for non-romantic purposes. Happens every day. Nothing to it.”

Sherlock’s fit started up again, which set John off.

Mrs. Hudson finally interrupted them with a “What’s got into you two?” as she stepped through the doorway.

“Nothing much,” John managed. “Just turning me into a vampire.”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head good naturedly. “It’s about time he made an honest man out of you,” she retorted with a smile.

This set them off for a third time, and Mrs. Hudson had disappeared with an “Oh you boys” by the time they’d calmed down again.

Tension broken, John held out his wrist with a smile and a “Bon appetit.”

Sherlock shoved John in the shoulder. “Stop! I’ll get blood everywhere if you keep making me laugh.”

John mimed zipping his lips. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse, promise.”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. He gestured to John’s wrist, which John held out with nary a peep.

“See you on the other side?” Sherlock said. At John’s nod, he bent his head over John’s wrist, and John pulled in a breath.

There was a piercing sensation, not unlike a pair of needles going into his wrist. It hurt for just a moment before Sherlock’s saliva numbed the pain. John knew the mechanics behind the process, but being a part of it was nothing like reading it in a textbook. For a few moments, he felt pressure on his wrist before a warmth began to spread up his arm. It wasn’t unpleasant—unlike Novocain during a dental procedure, which was strange and cold—more like a warm bath. He should have started feeling cold from the blood loss, but something that Sherlock’s venom released into his body made him feel quite peaceful. John closed his eyes and relaxed into it. Sensation became distant, like he was underwater.

Just when he was about to fall asleep, he heard Sherlock’s voice from far away. John opened his eyes to find himself looking at Sherlock’s upside-down head. He thought his head might be in Sherlock’s lap, but was too tired to investigate.

“John,” came Sherlock’s voice again, still far away. “You need to drink now. If you don’t drink soon, you’ll die. John! Do you understand?”

John grunted what he thought might be a yes. Sherlock must have thought so too, because put his own wrist up to John’s mouth. There were two puncture wounds, but they didn’t bleed like a normal person’s would, but rather just oozed a bit.

“Drink. Then you can sleep,” Sherlock promised, pushing his wrist closer to John’s mouth.

John squirmed a bit at the first taste. It was metallic and warm. Sherlock urged him on, though, and the more he drank, the better it got. After a few moments, he was gasping for more, as if he couldn’t drink fast enough. When Sherlock pulled his wrist away, John whined wordlessly.

“You can have more after you wake up, okay? You need to sleep now. It’ll take a few hours for the transformation to take effect.

John nodded muzzily, then yelped weakly as Sherlock picked him up. “Sher—”

“You’ll be more comfortable on the bed,” Sherlock explained.

Sherlock carried him to the bedroom and laid him on the bed. After John was situated, Sherlock backed away to leave the room.

“Stay?” John asked, halfway to sleep.

Sherlock hesitated. “Always,” he finally whispered before climbing into bed beside him.

“Be the big spoon?” John asked. Even in his sleep-addled state, he knew he shouldn’t have asked. It hewed a bit too close to the romantic entanglement he needed to avoid, but he really needed the comfort of his best friend right then.

Sherlock didn’t even pause. “Of course.” He scooted closer to John and put a tentative arm around his waist. “Sleep tight, John.”

It was the last thing John remembered as he tumbled into complete black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I read John’s line, “Awkwardness averted,” I think of [this panel](http://www.questionablecontent.net/view.php?comic=1425) of the comic _Questionable Content_. I imagine J &S’s lives are full of defeating awkward zones through giggling, but maybe they should try fancy period garb instead.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to get the rest of the story edited, so I'll be posting all remaining chapters today. Enjoy!

John returned to the land of the living (the unliving?) to the sound of a car backfiring. Like a shot, he was sitting up, fists raised in unconscious self-defense before he realized what he’d heard. He slumped back against the headboard of Sherlock’s bed.

“Your reflexes are phenomenal. I didn’t even have time to register the noise before you moved,” boomed Sherlock’s voice to John’s left. He flinched.

“Jesus, Sherlock. Inside voice.” John clapped his hands over his ears, his own voice ringing too loudly. As if becoming aware of his newly enhanced senses, the volume turned up on everything. He could here floors creaking all over the building, water gurgling in pipes, the neighbor’s conversation, Mrs. Hudson’s music in her earbuds downstairs.

Heartbeats. So many heartbeats.

He doubled over, hands still over his ears to block it all out, even as something inside him told him to go find the heartbeats.

“John. John! Listen to me and _only me_. Focus on my voice.” Sherlock’s voice was quieter than before, but still overwhelmingly loud amidst the cacophony of noise.

John groaned, trying to burrow in on himself to stop the sounds.

Hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back up to sitting, then moved to his face. “John, open your eyes. Look at me, John. Focus on me. You need to control your senses. Let’s start with sound. Focus on my voice. Tune out everything else. Listen only to me.”

“I can’t,” John moaned. “It’s everywhere. I need to-”

“Yes you can, John. Don’t think, just feel. Listen to my voice. Imagine you’ve got a volume control. Turn down everything except my voice.”

John finally opened his eyes and looked at his friend. He stared into those silver eyes and felt a calmness come over him. He took a deep breath and tried to push everything down. Sherlock kept murmuring to him, but John didn’t focus on the words, just the sound. He let the other sounds fade into the background. Once he had Sherlock’s voice singled out, he turned down the volume there, too. He sighed in relief. The siren song of heartbeats was still there, but he was almost able to ignore it.

“Good, John. Very good. Okay, this is going to be painful, but we need to do that with each of your senses. As you focus on each one, they will explode, like with the sound. But if we do it now, you’ll not be blindsided by them later. Got it?” Sherlock’s hands slid down to John’s neck and rubbed softly. “Okay. Sight next. Focus on what you can see.”

Now that John thought about it, his sight exploded. Everything was too bright, even in the dark room. A sliver of light slipped past the blackout curtains and pierced John’s retinas. Expecting it this time, John inhaled sharply, but wasn’t incapacitated.

“Look at my eyes, John. Focus there and let everything else soften, like you’ve put a filter over it, okay?”

John followed Sherlock’s instructions as they went one by one through his senses. Once everything was at an acceptable level, John fell back against the headboard again, feeling wrung out.

“Better?”

“Much.” John scrubbed his head. “How the hell did you manage that on your own? How were you able to even function?”

“I wasn’t, not for at least an hour after I awoke. Luckily, a vampire was in the area and picked up on my distress. She was able to talk me through it like just I did with you, but it was still terrifying. You’re doing much better than I did.”

John smiled tiredly. “Well, it helps having a friend nearby and previous warning that you’re becoming a vampire.”

Sherlock smiled back. “I suppose that’s true.” He reached over to the bedside table and picked up a bottle of blood. “Thirsty?”

John groaned. “Gasping.” He made gimme motions until Sherlock handed over the bottle.

“Careful. Not too fast.”

John tried, but it was as if he hadn’t drank in days. He was parched and his stomach ached and he felt a bit woozy, like he had low blood sugar. Sherlock pulled the container away several times to slow him down, but he still finished the entire bottle in moments.

“Better?”

John sighed in relief, wiping his mouth. “Much. I could still drink more.”

“In a few minutes. You need to pace yourself.”

John closed his eyes and nodded. He could still hear his and Sherlock’s heartbeats, but the volume was much better. He was able to ignore it if he wanted, but he found that he could make it louder by concentrating a bit. They had a nice rhythm. John listened to them until they synced up, which relaxed him further.

“Did you do that?” Sherlock asked.

“Hmm?” John asked. He wasn’t fatigued precisely, but he felt pleasantly tired, and he thought a nice rest might do him some good. It took a few days for the process to be complete, and his body would continue to need sleep for at least a while longer.

“Your heartbeat. It synced with mine. Was that on purpose?”

“No,” John mumbled. “It just sounds nicer this way.”

Sherlock huffed out a soft chuckle. “It took me a week to figure out how to do that, and you do it without thinking.”

“I’m a savant.” John opened his eyes and gave his friend a lazy smile. “I’m finally better than you at something.”

“You’re better than me at a lot of things, John.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so.” Sherlock grabbed another bottle and handed it over. “Slowly now.”

John took it greedily, energized by the mere thought of sustenance. He was able to pace himself a bit more this time, but still finished it quickly. He let out a yawn as he put the empty bottle on the bedside table.

“Sleep, John. Your body is still changing. Get some rest while your body still wants it.”

John nodded and slid down to lie on the bed. He was asleep in moments.

When he woke, he could tell it was fully dark out, even with the blackout curtains blocking the window. There was a bright light to his left, which he managed to tone down almost without thinking. It was Sherlock on his laptop, typing away, deep in concentration, but John knew that the man clocked John’s waking within milliseconds of the event. After he finished typing, he looked up.

“Joining us again, Doctor Watson?” He handed John another blood bottle, which John took gratefully, but managed to sip at a reasonable pace.

John stretched. He felt fantastic. The aches and pains of his aging body were gone, both the ones he had realized (his shoulder) and the ones he hadn’t (the tiny twinges in his joints). He felt like he could run a marathon, and then vaguely wondered how fast a vampire could run a marathon, but pushed the thought aside. He splayed his hands in front of him, then did a test run of his sight. With an infinitesimal thought, he was able to allow his eyes to see the nuances of his appendages—the tiny wrinkles in the knuckles, the individual hairs, the pores—even though it was quite dark in the room. There was the light from the laptop screen, but John could tell his night vision was better than the best goggles could ever have given him.

John looked up at Sherlock and froze. The man had always been gorgeous, but now he was radiant. John saw the way every shadow curved and hugged Sherlock’s face, he saw the glints of copper in his curly hair, despite the blue light of the laptop. He noticed the way the individual muscles of his face moved and saw the tiny bits of color that hid in his silver eyes. John could stare for days and not be able to compile all the tiny nuances he saw.

After some amount of time had passed, Sherlock cleared his throat. “So that’s how that feels.”

“Huh?” John asked, only half paying attention. There was the slightest bit of pink in Sherlock’s cheeks, and it was utterly fascinating.

“The staring. I can see how it would be, umm, disconcerting.”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled a bit, and it was the most adorable thing John had ever witnessed. He watched the tiny wrinkles shift and change until he was again captured by those magnificent, pale eyes. _How_ had he missed the blues and greens before? They were like tiny jewels in a platinum sea.

John was snapped out of it by fingers clicking in front of his face.

His hand shot out to push Sherlock’s out of the way. “Hey! That was rude.”

“You were zoning.”

“No I wasn’t. I was…noticing. I need to work on honing my senses, learn to control them.”

“Yes, well, maybe try it on the furniture.”

John finally came back fully to himself. “I put up with your creepy staring for almost eight months. And at least you understand why I’m staring.”

In truth, John hoped Sherlock didn’t realize specifically why John was fascinated with Sherlock’s face. John knew he’d probably do a bit of staring at everyone for a while, but Sherlock held John’s interest like nothing else ever could. But then again, love did that.

Sherlock cleared his throat again, and John looked up from where he was noting the curve of Sherlock’s clavicle as it peaked out the top of his t-shirt.

“Sorry. It’s just…” John paused. “Everything looks so different. It’s almost as if I can see new colors and shapes.”

“You can,” Sherlock replied. “Well, your eye for detail has been enhanced, so where you once saw a whole, you now see the individual pieces. Like zooming in on a photograph to see the pixels.”

John tried not to stare at Sherlock’s mouth as the man explained, but it was bloody difficult. Every movement was fascinating. John wondered what Sherlock tasted like. Felt like. Smelled like.

As if he’d turned up the controller, John was suddenly aware of scents emanating from Sherlock like heat waves off of a road. He didn’t realize he’d leaned in until Sherlock had grabbed his shoulder, though the man didn’t push him away, thank the gods.

“John?” The voice was faint and breathless. “What…are you…?”

“You smell _amazing_ ,” John groaned into Sherlock’s neck. “What the hell do they put in your aftershave? Drugs?”

“John, dial back the olfactory senses before you zone out.” John vaguely noticed Sherlock’s heart rate increasing, but couldn’t pull his focus from the smells.

“No, I need to figure this out. Something smells familiar, but I can’t tell what—” John took a deep breath, going through his memory to figure out where he’d smelled that particular odor before, but couldn’t quite place it. It was almost like Sherlock’s aftershave, but not. It was deeper, earthier. John wanted to spend days just breathing it in.

“Chemicals, John,” he vaguely heard Sherlock say, voice strained. “Remember? Body chemicals that humans can’t perceive, but we can. They smell familiar because they’re me, and even though your brain couldn’t consciously pick out the scent before, your body still documented it. It’s just… it’s…it’s…” Sherlock shuddered as John nuzzled his nose against Sherlock’s throat, memorizing the amazing scent. Like a shot, Sherlock was off the bed and standing in the doorway.

“Tea. Mrs. Hudson is making tea. I should…” and he was out the door.

John could see Sherlock’s movements now, his body and brain processing at a much faster rate than when he’d been mortal. It was brilliant to watch, and John wanted to spend days cataloguing each muscle movement, but Sherlock was being an annoying git and running away. _Why_ was he running away? Surely he understood what John was going through right now. Well, maybe not the love/lust bit—which, now that he gave it thought, he noted that the lust levels were quite high at the moment—but Sherlock had recently gone through the transformation himself and knew the feeling of the enhanced senses.

John’s senses seemed to hone in on Sherlock, even when he was a floor away. He heard his friend chatting with their landlady as she set up the tea tray to bring upstairs. John still smelled him, though that could have come from the pillow next to him. He also smelled scones, but those were freshly baked, and even a human would’ve noticed that scent. He heard Sherlock take the tray from Mrs. Hudson’s hands, arguing that his enhanced reflexes meant he was much less likely to spill anything. Mrs. Hudson tut-tutted, but let him, following the vampire up the stairs and into the flat.

John was still learning to control his movements, and so even though he wasn’t moving at top speed, he managed to startle Mrs. Hudson as he entered the room.

“Oh dear. I should be used to that by now, but I’m not,” Mrs. Hudson said, hand to her heart as she smiled at John. “How are you feeling? Sherlock asked that I hold tea until evening. Is everything in ship shape now?” She settled herself in Sherlock’s chair as Sherlock began serving. John pulled out the client chair to sit in, but Sherlock gestured to John’s armchair.

“You’re still likely to be sensitive. You should be as comfortable as possible.”

John nodded his thanks, and he sat down just in time for Sherlock to pass him a cup of perfectly made tea. Sherlock’s tea-making skills had improved since his own transformation, and John was quite glad for it now that his own senses noted everything, no matter how muted.

He was sighing in contentment when he noticed that Sherlock seemed skittish. He frowned. “Alright, Sherlock?”

“Whatyesofcoursefine,” came the garbled reply

“Uh huh,” John replied, not believing him for a second. Why had Sherlock bolted earlier? Had John scared him? He was used to John being the slower one, and now they were closer to equals. Did that bother Sherlock? John let the thoughts ruminate at the back of his mind as he focused in on a story Mrs. Hudson was telling about her poker group.

John found it much easier multitask now; he was able to think on a problem while also listening to a conversation, something he’d not been able to do before. He didn’t know the proper computer terminology, but it was as if his hard drive had been given extra space, and he was able to perform more tasks at once. He realized he was processing loads of sights, smells, and sounds while mulling over a problem and listening to Mrs. Hudson. He could even chime in with his own opinions, all while his brain thought of other things. Was this how Sherlock had been his whole life? Was this how he could half pay attention to John while working out a problem in his mind palace? If Sherlock was like that before, John couldn’t even fathom what it was like in that genius brain now.

“…and when we caught her cheating, you’d have thought the world ended. I thought she was going to break a chair over Millie’s head!” Mrs. Hudson said, finishing her story. John laughed at the antics of the poker group while he continued to consider Sherlock’s recent behavior.

What in three hells was going on with his best friend? As if Sherlock could read John’s thoughts, he turned his head to look at John. The movement was minute, but John noticed a slight increase in Sherlock’s pupil size. The light in the room hadn’t changed, so that left fear or lust. What exactly had caused Sherlock to shy earlier in the bedroom? It was when… Oh. It was when John had nuzzled his neck. He’d been too busy taking in the scents to pay attention to his actions earlier, but he recalled them now with almost perfect memory—Sherlock’s breathlessness and strained voice, the tension in his muscles, the way he moved the instant John’s nose had touched his neck. Lust.

Sherlock was afraid, yes, but he wasn’t afraid of John. No, he was afraid of his own actions or that they might be noticed by John. Did he not want to lust after John? Or was he afraid it was unrequited lust? Neither made any sense to John. He had realized that his own feelings must have been clear to Sherlock, if not from the beginning, then at least at some point in their relationship, and almost certainly once Sherlock had turned. John was an open book, everyone said it. Sherlock had figured him out within a day of their meeting, so how could he not note John’s own lust (and later his romantic feelings) for the detective?

But if Sherlock had noticed those things, wouldn’t he have been relieved that his own feelings were returned? When had Sherlock become attracted to John—in the beginning or when he’d become a vampire? Was it just sexual attraction, or did Sherlock, too, have romantic feelings? Why was he afraid for them to show? Did he not want them? John figured the man must be celibate, so maybe he abhorred the attraction, thought that it clouded his judgment. If it was just physical attraction, though, why shun it? While the detective disliked slowing down to eat and sleep, he did realize that he needed those things to function. Would he not treat sex the same way? But if the attraction had only cropped up once he’d become a vampire, perhaps he worried about physically hurting the still-human John in the heat of the moment. But Sherlock was skittish even now, even though John was strong enough to handle the roughest of sex.

While he thought on these things, he laughed at Mrs. Hudson’s stories, praised her latest scone recipe, poured out a second round of tea for everyone, and teased Sherlock about the fumble he’d made in their last case. He asked Sherlock if Greg or anyone else knew about John’s recent changes, or if they’d be surprised the next time they met up.

John found out that Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson were the only people privy to the information so far, Sherlock explaining it wasn’t his place to tell. John made a mental note to text both Greg and Harry to give them a heads up.

John deliberated how to go about confronting Sherlock about the physical and possible romantic attraction between them, not sure if he should approach it head on or try to tease it out of the man. They couldn’t go on long with Sherlock jumping at John’s every movement, especially when they were looking at centuries spent in each other’s company. John finally settled on head on, but with actions instead of words.

Sherlock wouldn’t be able to ignore a kiss. He may have been several months ahead of John, but he was still an infant vampire. If he was sexually attracted to John, he wouldn’t be able to resist a kiss. John knew Sherlock still didn’t have total control over his body, as proved by the vacant stares and zone outs that still occurred from time to time. If John kissed Sherlock, and the man was attracted to John, Sherlock wouldn’t be able to abstain. Then, once plenty of likely fantastic snogging had transpired, John could ask Sherlock about it face to face.

All of this was decided and planned by the time John had finished pouring tea, and he was able to spend the rest of Mrs. Hudson’s visit relaxing in the company of the people he loved. He noted Mrs. Hudson’s scent (comforting and homey; not nearly so enticing as Sherlock’s scent, but pleasant nonetheless) and her heartbeat, and knew he’d never forget either for the rest of his days, able to pick her out of a crowd in moments. He wondered if that would be the case with everyone, or if he could choose whose traits he could imprint on his mind and whose he could ignore or forget. He let the sound of her pulse lull him, the susurration a bit hypnotic. It sounded so nice. So alive. He wondered how her blood compared to the bottled stuff.

He didn’t realize he was staring at her carotid until Sherlock suddenly stood in front of John. “John. Blood. Now.” His voice was stern, but not harsh. It was just enough to pull John out of his daze.

John realized then he’d been licking his lips and that his incisors had lengthened. He cleared his throat. "Right. Yeah. I should…yeah.”

Sherlock stepped out of John’s way, watching him closely as John hastened to the fridge.

John heard Mrs. Hudson asking if everything was okay, but John’s mind was on feeding now. He didn’t let his mind dwell on the much warmer, fresher blood sitting in Sherlock’s chair. It was excruciating the longer he thought about it, but once he opened the fridge and saw the bottles lined up, he was able to refocus. He pulled out a variety pack filled with eight mini bottles, one for each blood type and Rh factor mix. He really didn’t relish drinking them cold. He scanned the box to see if microwaving was okay. Apparently, the best results came from a dedicated blood heating appliance or by sticking the bottles in hot water, but microwaving could do in a pinch, like right then when he wasn’t patient enough to wait for water to boil.

He nuked the whole set and cracked open the AB-neg as he made his way back into the living room. He’d heard Sherlock usher Mrs. Hudson out with promises to visit once John had settled a bit more. Thirsty despite the tea, John downed the bottle in no time and was opening the next (A-pos) by the time he sat in his chair. Sherlock sat in his own chair now, hands in his thinking pose as he watched John closely.

“Better?”

John nodded. “It’ll be a relief once the transformation is complete, and I don’t have to drink as much. How long did it take you? Three days?”

“Fifty-two hours. The first twenty-four are the most difficult, though. You’ll feel calmer by tomorrow. We should wait at least forty-eight to leave the house, though.”

“You were all over the place from the moment you turned! Why should I have to wait?”

“I was barely in check, John. Only my previous practice of controlling my body’s needs kept me from attacking everyone I saw. You’d only just fed, but being in the room with Mrs. Hudson for more than five minutes had you craving more. You’ll remember that I downed three bottles in quick succession the moment we got to the registration office.”

John did recall that, now that Sherlock had mentioned it. He also remembered Sherlock’s tapping fingers and fidgety legs and wondered how even a controlled person like Sherlock had managed to be in the taxi with two humans for the entire twenty-minute ride without bloodshed.

“Meh,” John said, taking a look at the bottle he was currently drinking. O-neg, Sherlock’s favorite. “How on earth is this your favorite? It’s so bland, I might as well be drinking water.”

Sherlock’s brows rose. “Bland? Not in the least. I’d compare it to…a good Chardonnay. Light, buttery, with just a hint of sweetness at the end.”

John looked at Sherlock in confusion. “I don’t know where the hell you’re getting that. Tastes pretty watery to me.” He passed the bottle over.

Sherlock took a drink and sighed. “Perfect.”

“If you say so.” John shrugged. He opened up the B-pos and took a sip. Yes, _that_ hit the spot

Sherlock cocked his head. “You like that one, don’t you?”

John nodded. “Sort of…peppery? Very full-bodied, but not overwhelming.”

“Like a Malbec?”

John laughed. “Yeah, I suppose if you want to keep up the wine metaphor. That’s the one I like, right? Malbec?”

“Yes, and Chianti.”

Of course Sherlock knew John’s favorite wine. He probably had a whole list of John’s likes and dislikes stored in that massive brain.

“You like whiskey, too, so it’s not surprising that you like blood with a bit of a zing to it.”

“Ohhhh,” John moaned. “Do you think I could mix whiskey with this? A little smokiness would be heavenly.”

Sherlock snorted. “There are vampire bars, so I’m guessing you wouldn’t be the first to try mixing blood with alcohol.”

John hummed. He’d have to try that sometime… Not tonight, though. Tonight he was road testing and letting his body do whatever it needed to do to complete the transformation.

He got to the last bottle. He took one sip and made a face. He hadn’t noticed it with the AB-neg, since it was the first one he’d tried and he’d been rather hungry, but the AB-pos was horrid.

Sherlock laughed. “It’s a bit like mixing Malbec, Riesling, Rosé, and Cab together, isn’t it? And throwing in some whiskey for good measure.”

John chuckled. “I was going to say curry on top of a fully-loaded pizza on top of a burrito, but yeah, if you’re going to persist with the wine analogy, I’d say you described it pretty well.”

John held his nose and tossed the rest of it back, not willing to let it go to waste. He wouldn’t be drinking that again if he could help it.

“I’ll put you down for B-pos in the next order then, shall I? Want anything else?”

“Sherlock, I can do that myself.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You did the majority of the work when I went through this, now it’s my turn to repay the favor. Plus, what happens to one of us happens to both of us, remember? I’m the reason you’re dealing with this at all. I’ll help.”

John sighed. “At least let me fill out the regis—”

“Already done.”

“What?!?”

“I was bored while you slept. It’s not as if there was much to do anyway. We already had the license for your transformation, so your paperwork was only a quarter of mine and could be done online. It only took me a few minutes.”

John shook his head, but a fond feeling welled in his chest. People might think Sherlock unmindful of others, but he could be downright considerate and sentimental when given the right situation. He relaxed into the feeling for a while, not needing to speak, content to continue testing out his new senses lazily. Before he realized it, John was drinking in the man sitting across from him, and it was only when he shook himself free that he realized he’d stared at Sherlock’s lips for at least five minutes. John wondered why Sherlock hadn’t snapped at him or gone running from the room again, but when John looked up, he saw that Sherlock was staring at him just as hard as John had been staring at Sherlock. His breath was a bit ragged and his heartbeat had ticked up a few notches. John noticed color on Sherlock’s cheeks and neck and that the man’s pupils were wide.

It would only take the tiniest movement for them to fall together, and John was sorely tempted, but managed to rein it in just in time. No. If he was going to kiss Sherlock, it would be when he was cool-headed rather than under the spell of his newly heightened senses. He needed to be able to convince Sherlock that it wasn’t caused by John’s recent status as one of the undead. If he kissed him now, Sherlock would think it a mistake on John’s part.

John sat back in his chair, unaware until then how far on the edge of it he had been perched. He took deep breaths (though not too deep, otherwise he’d be overwhelmed by Sherlock’s intoxicating scent) and forced himself to relax. He concentrated on the feel of the armchair’s upholstery under his fingertips and the sound of Mrs. Hudson getting ready for bed downstairs. When he was in control, he gave Sherlock a fond smile. While he didn’t want to pounce on Sherlock in the heat of the moment, he also didn’t want Sherlock thinking John didn’t want him. He wanted to put him at ease, and hopefully show that he wanted him, just not right at that instant. He wasn’t sure he succeeded.

Once Sherlock calmed down a bit, John matched their heartbeats and breaths, both as easy as clenching his hand, done almost without thought. Sherlock relaxed further and managed a return smile.

John gave a very real yawn. “Wow, I’m still knackered. Think I’ll catch a little shut-eye.” He kept his eyes locked on Sherlock’s but made his tone deliberately light and friendly.

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Yes, of course. You’re still—yes.”

John found Sherlock’s stumbling endearing, now that he knew the cause. _He_ did that to the man. Whether it was just physical or more, it was John who crashed past Sherlock’s guard, who Sherlock paid attention to, who apparently had been a distraction to Sherlock for the past few months. It was a heady thought, but John shoved it down as he pushed himself to standing. He couldn’t think on that now. There would be time for that in a few days, when he was more himself.

He had finished his evening routine and was halfway to crawling into bed when he realized he was in Sherlock’s room. Did Sherlock want him there anymore, now that he was a vampire? Would his presence still calm the detective in the middle of the night, or would it distract him? John was about to stand back up when he heard a quiet “Don’t be ridiculous, John. Go to sleep.”

John chuffed and finished sliding between the bajillion-thread-count sheets (which John was infinitely glad for with his heightened senses, but would never admit to Sherlock).

“’Night, Sherlock,” he murmured, not even bothering to raise his voice. He knew Sherlock heard him.

“Good night, John,” came the equally quiet reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t realize until my latest editing pass that John’s thoughts on seducing Sherlock may come off a little forceful or non-con, but you have to remember a few things. One, John isn’t quite himself right now. He’s still processing the whole vampire thing, and he’s dealing with a lot of emotions, physical changes, and new information; he isn’t thinking clearly. Two, how things pan out will involve a lot more talking than John is planning on. Because that’s how I roll.
> 
> Also, sorry for a rather lackluster chapter. It’s my least favorite. I just felt like we needed to cover a lot of information that was glossed over when Sherlock turned (because he doesn’t talk about things, of course, and we didn’t get to see his thoughts). I’m still not satisfied with what’s on the page, but I’m tired of overthinking it. Hope you weren’t too bored!


	6. Chapter 6

John was inhaling a watery O-neg the next morning when Sherlock breezed into the kitchen from who knew were.

“Blood delivery this afternoon, don’t worry,” he said with a smirk, grabbing a bottle for himself, cracking the lid, and gulping it down.

“How the hell do you drink that cold?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “Chardonnays are better chilled.”

“Oh gods, why are we still on _that_ analogy?”

Sherlock didn’t deign the remark with an answer, instead taking the rest of his breakfast to the desk and the laptop that sat on it. “We can pick up your license this morning; the paperwork went through with no issues.”

John raised his eyebrows. “You’re letting me leave the house?”

“Straight to the office and back again. At least we don’t need to sit through that interminable and puerile _Welcome to Life as a Vampire_ orientation again. I told them you watched it when I registered. They didn’t believe me until they pulled the waiver you signed on living with a vampire.”

John nodded in relief. It was a rather ridiculous orientation video. “Nice. Have anything else on today?”

“Baby vampire minding,” Sherlock said laconically, reading through emails. “Really, why do I get such _ridiculous_ requests? This one wants me to find her girlfriend. It’s obvious the girlfriend is having an affair and skipped town to get away from this too attached one.”

John listened to him grumble through a few more emails before wandering to the bathroom for a shower and shave. In record time, he was washed, dressed, fed, and ready to get out of the house. He was eager to try out his new skills in the busy London streets, though he was a little worried how he’d react to being surrounded by fresh blood. He trusted Sherlock to keep him in check, though.

He entered the kitchen to see Sherlock stowing a couple of blood bottles into a small cooler he had likely nabbed from Molly at some point. Hoping it was sterile, John laughed.

“Packing my lunch, Mummy?”

Sherlock glared. “I distinctly remember you carrying blood bags in your pockets the first few months, doling them out to me like children’s juice pouches, straw and all. Be glad I’m nicer than you.”

John laughed. “I did do that, didn’t I? Greg and Stella got such a kick out of it.” His thoughts turned more serious. He bumped Sherlock’s arm with his shoulder to get his attention. “Hey.”

Sherlock looked up from where he was staring at the cooler in his hands.

“Thanks for watching over me.”

Sherlock’s eyes softened. “Just returning the favor. And, as I said before, it’s my fault you’re in this position to begin with. If I—”

“And remember what _I_ said,” John cut in. “This became both of our problem the moment you were bitten. This thing that’s happening to me right now? That’s just finishing what that rogue started in that alleyway months ago.”

Sherlock sighed, but nodded, then brightened a bit. “Got word last night. He was caught yesterday, turning another poor sod. He’s getting the chop next week.”

John let out a breath. “Good.” It wasn’t that he was for the death penalty, but when it came to rogue vampires, it was the only option. There was literally something wrong with them, some mutation that compelled them to turn people. When they weren’t allowed to do so, they went insane, and no medication could help. The death penalty was a relief.

He shook himself free of his thoughts. “Ready?”

With a nod from Sherlock, they were on their way.

\------

John’s transformation lasted forty-nine and a half hours, according to Sherlock. Once completed, John felt invincible. He had his speed under control, he was no longer constantly thirsty or craving blood, his senses behaved as he wished them to most of the time, and he felt more alive than he had since he was a teenager. He still occasionally zoned out, but usually only when he was focusing on Sherlock. Sherlock took the staring mostly in stride, stopping his complaining once John once again reminded him that he had put up with it for months.

A week after Sherlock had turned him, they were sat in the living room, John reading and Sherlock flitting. He’d been on edge all day, not able to concentrate on anything. It’d been two weeks since their last case, and John assumed he was antsy from that, and he was mentally preparing himself for the black mood that inevitably followed.

Strangely enough, Sherlock wasn’t bellowing at John to find him a case or complaining that the criminal class was on holiday. He would just pick up something, then put it down in frustrated disgust twenty minutes later. John noticed a pattern the second round—violin, laptop, pacing, experiment, writing, pacing, book. By the third round, John threw up his hands in defeat.

“Do you want me to call the Yard? I’m sure we can rustle up something to keep you occupied.”

Sherlock looked at the book he was currently not reading, then threw it down with loathing. “What? No. I’m fine. I don’t need a case.”

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. “You’ve not settled all day. You’re pacing like a madman, flitting from project to project. You’re gasping for a case.”

“No. It’s not—I’m fine. Honestly. I just need—” Sherlock went back to his violin to start the routine from the top.

“You’re not fine, Sherlock, look at you.” He hadn’t put on real clothes in two days. His hair was a wild nest from where he’d scrubbed through it with his hands eighty million times. He was twitchy and unsettled.

“John, if you don’t quiet this instant, I’ll—”

“You’ll what, Sherlock? Throw me through a wall? Honestly, I’d prefer that to this manic… _thing_ you have going on. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

Sherlock put his violin down and stared at John for a moment.

John met his gaze, trying not to get lost in it. Now was not the time to zone out. “Tell me, Sherlock. Please?” John asked quietly.

The detective dropped into his armchair as if his strings had been cut. His hands went to his hair, scrubbing through it yet again. “I can’t, John.”

“Can’t what? Can’t tell me?”

“I can’t _think_. It’s just this interminable buzzing, never quiet, but never focused. My thoughts are running in a thousand different directions. How are you not going completely mad?” By that point, Sherlock had put his face in his hands, and he sounded miserable and lost.

It was only then that John realized they hadn’t slept in three days. He had lost track of the time, now that his body didn’t demand he keep to a regular sleeping schedule. Many vampires did sleep, if only to give their minds a break, but there was no _physical_ need for it. And John had been so busy categorizing new sensations and learning his limits, that he hadn’t given sleep a thought. But Sherlock wasn’t busy with those things anymore, and John knew he could only last so long without resting his brain. And he could only do that when John slept.

“Oh, gods, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize…Fuck, _why_ didn’t you say anything?” John felt horrible. Here his friend was, slowly going insane, and John had been completely oblivious. Hadn’t he become a vampire for the very purpose of keeping Sherlock sane? He’d failed within his first week on the job. He felt like a tit.

“It’s not your fault. You’re newly turned; you’ve got enough to keep you occupied for weeks, and I can’t depend on you to calm me. If I can’t do that, it’s my own failing, not yours.”

“ _You_ are the reason I’m a vampire at all. It’s only been one week, and I’ve already been a complete dickhead.”

“It’s not—”

“Come on, we’re going to bed.” John stood up, then pulled Sherlock to his feet, pushing him toward the bedroom.

John cleaned his teeth and washed his face while Sherlock changed into fresh pajamas, then they switched places. They met at the bed a few minutes later.

“Lie down,” John demanded, pointing at the bed. “Under the duvet.”

“You know we aren’t as sensitive to temperature as humans, right?” Sherlock asked, but it came out more exhausted than sneering.

“It’ll put you in the mood for resting,” John replied, slipping between the bedclothes himself.

After some hesitation, Sherlock sighed and dropped onto the bed, pulling the duvet over him with great exaggeration. “Happy now?” Sherlock asked.

“Thrilled,” John replied from deep in his pillow. Now that he was lying down and thinking about sleep, he realized his brain could use a rest. It had been going non-stop for the last three days and had been busy for the last week in coming to terms with his new (un)life.

He had just started to doze when Sherlock squirmed. Two minutes later, the same thing happened. And again three minutes after that.

“Did I—”

“Shhhh. Sleep now.”

“But—”

“Hush, man. I will paste your mouth shut if I have to.”

“I just—”

“Tomorrow, Sherlock.”

John turned on his side, facing Sherlock. He synced his breathing and heartbeat with Sherlock’s. Within a minute, Sherlock’s fidgeting stopped. He sighed.

“Right. Good night, John.”

“’Night, Sherlock.”


	7. Chapter 7

John woke four hours later, feeling refreshed and ready to go. As expected, Sherlock was quick to follow.

“Feeling any better?” John whispered, not ready to break the hushed spell of the middle of the night.

“Much.” A beat. “Thank you, John.”

“You’re welcome. Just don’t wait so long next time, if I forget again. If you need rest, you need to let me know, okay?”

“Of course, John.”

“You’re going to completely ignore me, aren’t you?”

“Why ever would I do that?”

“Because you’re Sherlock Bloody Holmes, and you think it’s your mission in life to ignore me.”

Sherlock looked rather affronted for having just woken up and it being the middle of the night. “I would never—”

“Don’t even go there, Sherlock. I have mountains of evidence to back up my claim. You can’t win this fight, not now that my memory is in working order. Thank you, vampirism.”

“I may think some of what you say is irrelevant, but I’ve never _ignored_ you, John. Not knowingly. If I’ve made you feel contemptable, it wasn’t on purpose and definitely not done with malice.”

“I understand, Sherlock, really I do. Especially now that my own brain is running much better than the average human’s.”

“Your brain has always run much better than the average human’s. You’re a fantastic doctor. During the war, you were able to classify injuries in a moment and deduce what needed to be done to save as many lives as possible. And you did this while keeping people safe. You’re not only the best and bravest man I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, but you actually know how to do stuff.”

John chuckled. “Who knew that all you needed to do to get Sherlock Holmes in a sentimental mood was to catch him newly awakened in the dead of night,” he mused. “Thank you, Sherlock. I know you think well of me. You wouldn’t put up with me otherwise. But it’s nice to hear you say it, from time to time. We mere mortals need that.”

“Not mortal anymore.”

“No, I guess I’m not.” John sighed. His mind wandered to the future, and he wondered what it had in store for them. He could imagine them doing the detective thing for another forty or fifty years, unless something drastic happened to change their current course, but what happened after that?

“What are you thinking about?”

“The future,” John said honestly.

“The future of the universe, humanity, or just us?”

“Just us, I suppose, though humanity’s future will play a part, should we live long enough to watch it happen. I could definitely be up for space pirate someday.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I wanted to be a pirate when I was a kid. Never considered the space aspect, though.”

“I know. Mycroft told me.”

Sherlock lifted his head. “When?” he demanded.

“After…after The Woman. The day he told me what happened to her.”

“Gods, he can’t help but stick his giant nose where it doesn’t belong,” Sherlock huffed. “At least I one-upped him there.”

“Pardon?”

“The Woman, when I saved her. Mycroft never found out, I don’t think.”

“Wait, hold up. Irene Adler is _alive_?”

“Last I saw, yes. But that was…hmm, well over a year ago. Who knows what she’s up to now. Finding rich people to extort, I suppose.”

John’s brain was working at full speed. The Woman—the one person Sherlock ever seemed to show interest in, the one person who could maybe match his intelligence while not being a _complete_ psychopath—was alive. Sherlock had saved her and hadn’t told John. The green monster he’d managed to tamp down after he’d heard about her death roared to life, ready to consume again.

But. Hold on.

Sherlock said they hadn’t spoken in over a year, that he had no clue where she was now. And he didn’t seem to care that he didn’t know. Why? If he had been interested, why hadn’t he done something about it? He had saved her—likely from the coven that supposedly had killed her—they could have run away together, started over fresh. But Sherlock had come back. He had never mentioned her again. That meant something, didn’t it? But what precisely? That he didn’t do romantic entanglement, or that he wasn’t interested in her that way? Or at all.

Sherlock was obviously capable of experiencing lust. John had seen the evidence of that over the past week. Maybe now was the time to put his decision into action. The kiss. He’d been waiting days for the right moment. The lust-tinged moments were wrong, as were the more serious times. But this moment, it was quiet, peaceful, thoughtful. It could work.

“I thought, once, that you were interested in her romantically,” John confessed, hoping Sherlock would play into his hands.

“Once? Not anymore?” Sherlock questioned, latching onto the word John expected him to.

“Now that I know she’s alive? No, not anymore. You could’ve gone away with her, but you didn’t; therefore, your interest in her did not outweigh the things that interested you here, in London.”

“What things?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“The work, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Your friends. Don’t deny you have them. You would do anything for Mrs. Hudson, and probably Greg, too.”

“Who?”

“Lestrade.”

“Ah, yes. Quite. Just them?”

“And me. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Well, I am your friend, that’s for certain. I would even say I’m your closest friend.”

“I would not dispute it.”

“Good.”

“But?” Sherlock asked, tentatively.

“But what?”

“You threw a ‘maybe’ in there.”

“Right. Yes. Well. Maybe…” John floundered. What if he had read everything wrong? What if he wanted Sherlock so badly that he was seeing things that weren’t really there? What if he didn’t understand his vampire perceptions correctly? What if…

What if he had read everything accurately, but didn’t do anything about it?

“Maybe,” John continued, “there was the hope of something else?”

“Something else?” Sherlock’s breath hitched for the slightest of moments, but it was enough to allow John to hope that he wasn’t imagining it all.

“We’ve already pledged our ridiculously long lives to each other,” John said, thinking out loud. “You obviously love me.”

“Love comes in many—”

“And I obviously love you. I could have left you when you turned. Or chosen to live out a mortal life, leaving you to fend for yourself when I died.”

“But you didn’t,” Sherlock finished for him, scooting almost imperceptibly closer.

“I didn’t.” John mirrored Sherlock’s action, then put his hand on the mattress between them. “I chose to stay with you.”

“To keep me safe?”

“Yes, and…”

“And?”

John’s hand twitched, but he left it where it was. He could hear their hearts beating, impossibly loud in the stillness of the night. “Because I couldn’t bear the thought of you alone and hurting, couldn’t imagine you without me or me without you. But it goes deeper than the two of us against the rest of the world. You and me, we’re…”

“Yes?” Sherlock put his hand on top of John’s.

“Meant to be,” John breathed as he moved that tiny bit necessary to close the distance between their mouths.

He let Sherlock’s intoxicating scent wash over him as he pressed his lips gently to Sherlock’s. He heard Sherlock’s heart beat in time with his. He felt the other man slide his hand up from John’s to his arm and up further to his shoulder and neck. He tasted mint toothpaste and Sherlock’s own unique chemistry. He catalogued this all in a moment and was ready to back away to let Sherlock process the kiss when Sherlock moaned, low and deep and with just a hint of desperation. And with that one small noise, John was lost. He deepened the kiss, let his tongue glide lightly over the seam of Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock breathed out and opened his mouth to John’s tacit request, pulling them closer together until there was no space between them. John felt every curve and hard line of Sherlock’s body, the body he had spent the last week attempting to memorize in some feeble way from a distance. This was much better than just looking. Sherlock was warm and solid, he was real, not just some effigy John admired from afar. They were in this bed together, kissing and touching and breathing each other in.

Sherlock’s scent increased, and John wondered briefly if he smelled as amazing to Sherlock as Sherlock did to him. Remembering the reaction John had got when he’d first transformed, John slid his lips away from Sherlock’s, who whined at the loss of contact, but then hummed happily when John moved across his jaw and down to his neck. Sherlock’s grip on John’s neck tightened briefly before he slipped his hand into John’s hair. John felt his incisors lengthen as he reached Sherlock’s pulse point, but he managed to hold himself back, if only barely.

He’d read that sharing blood between two vampires, while offering no health benefits, acted as a means for bonding. And while they were in agreement that they’d be spending the rest of their lives together, John was hesitant to make such a decision in the heat of the moment and without knowing exactly where Sherlock stood.

John clamped his lips shut, squeezed his eyes closed, and buried his nose into Sherlock’s clavicle. He had to move back after only a few moments, though; Sherlock’s scent and sound of his pulse was too much to handle. He scooched back up so that he was face to face with the other man and slid his arms around Sherlock’s waist.

“Meant to be,” Sherlock repeated dazedly, breathing hard as he brought his forehead to John’s. “You’re a bleeding sop.”

John chuckled. “Are you lodging a formal complaint?”

“I was thinking of giving you a medal.”

“Oh? What for?”

“Best kisser. Perfect score.”

John tried to snuggle even closer, but found they were already close enough to swap electrons. It still wasn’t close enough. He tightened his arms. He reveled in the strength and solidity of the man he held. This wasn’t a dream or fantasy. It was reality.

“Soooo, you’re okay with this?”

“Care to expand on ‘this’?”

“Kissing.”

“Obviously.”

“Cuddling.”

“It’s not bad.” Sherlock nuzzled John’s ear to show how not bad it was.

John smiled. “Sex?”

“Do you know how hard I’ve worked to not pounce on you since the moment I smelled you after I turned?”

“So I am as intoxicating to you as you are to me, then?”

“Mmmm. More.”

“Think so, huh?”

“Know so. Scientific fact. I can prove it.”

“Hmmm, I think I can get behind that sort of experimentation. We’ll talk more about that later.”

Sherlock slid a leg between John’s. “Later? Why not now?” He nuzzled John’s jaw, then slid his lips over John’s.

John allowed some light snogging before pulling back to look Sherlock in the eye.

“Not done yet,” he said with mock sternness.

“Kissing, cuddling, sex, experimentation. What else is there?”

John took a deep breath. Damn, he had to stop doing that. Sherlock’s scent was too distracting. His eyes glanced away from Sherlock’s. Here was the one point John wasn’t sure on. Just because Sherlock admitted that he cared for John and wanted to have sex with him did not necessarily mean that Sherlock was _in love_ with John. And perhaps it didn’t matter. They had pledged eternity together, and they were physically attracted to one another. Was romance that important, in the long run? Sparks fizzled and died in most marriages. The honeymoon phase became something deeper and more abiding in relationships that worked.

But John had to ask. He couldn’t help but hope, no matter what his brain told him.

“Romance?”

Sherlock stilled, his wandering hands freezing halfway down John’s back.

“I know it probably doesn’t matter that much. We do love each other, and we’re sexually attracted to one another—at least, I’m fairly certain we just proved the latter—so that should be enough. But I…”

“Have to ask, just in case?”

John nodded, looking squarely at Sherlock’s ear, afraid of what he’d see in his best friend’s eyes.

“I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that I was aesthetically attracted to you, and that I was sexually attracted to you by the time I walked out of that lab door. By the time Angelo handed you your forgotten cane, I was completely smitten.”

Sherlock said this all slowly, rubbing his hands up and down John’s back. Despite his heightened senses and quicker processing brain, John couldn’t figure out if Sherlock was letting him down slowly or building to a big confession.

John held his breath.

“Despite that, and despite my knowledge of many things, I’ve never been able to figure out when I fell in love with you. Maybe it was when you handed me your phone. Maybe it was when you shot that cabbie. Maybe it was when you jumped on Moriarty’s back, ready to sacrifice your life to save mine. Maybe it’s outside of the space-time continuum, and I’ve loved you never and always. All I know is that even though I’ve always considered romantic entanglement to be outside my purview, you are right in the middle of it, and I can’t ignore you, no matter how hard I’ve tried.”

“Sentiment?” John asked, huffing into Sherlock’s neck.

“Sentiment.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock leaned back to look at John’s face, his own wrinkled in confusion.

“For loving the unloveable,” John explained.

“John…”

“It’s true. I’m no easier to live with than you are. That’s what I told Mike, the day we met. ‘Who’d want me for a flatmate.’ It wasn’t even a question. It was a statement. I was so alone and so lost, and you gave me my life back. You said ‘Could be dangerous,’ and I felt alive for the first time in months. You said brilliant things and cured my limp and…I have a lot to be thankful for. And I am, truly. But somewhere along the way, I fell in love with you, too, Sherlock Holmes. The thought of us being involved romantically terrifies the _shit_ out of me. This isn’t just a measly human lifetime we’re talking about here. And there is no splitting up, not when neither of us would last a year on our own, let alone several centuries. When I realized that we could just as easily have a falling out as friends as we could as lovers, I decided that being scared was stupid. If we’re in this for the long run, together, we might as well get the whole package, right?”

Sherlock hugged John tight. “Agreed.”

“Wow.”

“Hmm?”

“That went…better than I thought.”

“You’re calling me difficult, aren’t you?”

“No. Not precisely. You’re just difficult to read. And you have said several times that you don’t go in for romance.”

“Shows how difficult you are, then. To be able to break down that wall.”

“Not so immovable, are you?”

“Hmm?”

“Unstoppable force meets an immovable object.”

“Ah, yes. Quite.” Sherlock slide his hands down John’s back and onto his bum. “So, up for some experimentation?”


	8. Epilogue

The ancient strains of “I Only Have Eyes for You” floated through the evening air. John, reading a novel, looked over at his partner with a smile. Sherlock, knowing what was expected after eight centuries, put his own work aside, stood, and offered his hand to John. John took the proffered hand and let Sherlock pull him into his arms. It had been far too long since they last danced. But they had promised each other that any time this song played, they would dance.

It was a promise extracted after they had spent thirty years apart, about two-hundred years into their life together. It had been a mistake, but at the same time, it had allowed them both see how much they needed each other. After apologies had been made and tears shed, the song had come on, and John had asked that they always dance to this song, no matter their feelings for each other.

John wasn’t sure if it was the promise or the thirty years spent apart, but they had never had a disagreement big enough to tear them apart since, and they always danced to this song.

But that was almost six hundred years ago. Things were changing. Humanity was changing, but John and Sherlock were not. They found things to hold their interest for a time, but it was growing more difficult. John didn’t regret his decision to become a vampire—not for one moment—but he thought maybe the next adventure was calling to them. He had sensed Sherlock’s restlessness as well.

“It’s almost time, isn’t it?” John asked, laying his head on Sherlock’s shoulder as they swayed to the music.

“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed. “I’m getting tired.”

“It was a good life, though, wasn’t it?”

“The best. And it’s not over yet. But soon, I agree.”

“Five years?”

“I calculate three.”

It wasn’t morbid, to think this way. They weren’t ending their lives out of despair. It had been a good life. A very good one. They had been happy. There had been adventure and laughter and, yes, even some space piracy. There had been inventions created and books written. They had seen new lands and learned new things. But there was only so much a body—even an immortal one—could handle.

Though their physical bodies were still in peak condition, John understood what Sherlock meant by being tired. They had done all they needed to do. They were content. And soon, they would sever ties with the mortal coil they had been a part of for so long.

There was no regret or longing. Just…a peaceful end to it. Together, as they did all things.

“I’d best whip this garden into shape then,” John said, gaze landing on the rather barren landscape of their back garden where they danced.

Sherlock chuckled. “You’ve been trying for over two years. I think it’s a lost cause.”

John shook his head. “Nope. I’ll figure it out.”

“We were warned this area wasn’t amenable to growing things.”

“I’m an eight-hundred-year-old vampire. I have patience. And the will.”

“You are a stubborn old bastard, I’ll grant you.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way, you mad man.” John ran his fingers through his partner’s hair fondly. He’d never tire of those curls.

“I definitely prefer you this way, yes. But that doesn’t mean you should be messing about with an ungrowable garden.”

“What else am I meant to do, ever since you’ve gone all boring and staid.”

Sherlock gave his partner a mock gasp. “How dare you.”

John smiled and kissed Sherlock. “I love you.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied after the kiss. “I’m rather fond of you myself, despite your egregious attempts at turning this dust pit into a garden.”

“Magnanimous, you are.”

“I have my moments.”

“So, three years, huh?”

“If that’s alright with you.”

“As long as they’re spent with you.”

“Obviously.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll leave you to decide whether they live on another planet, a scorched Earth, or if eight hundred years has allowed the Sahara to finally be inhabitable. All I’ll say is, it ain’t Sussex. ;)
> 
> And that’s it! I hope the epilogue isn’t too much of a downer. I think it’s all rather sweet myself. As I said at the beginning, vampires really aren’t my thing, so I appreciate anyone who stuck it through to the end. I know it's not for everyone. I hope you found my foray interesting.


End file.
